


Adventuring is for the Adventurous

by PaddyWack



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, And a mage, Dumbledore likes to be difficult, Graves is so done with this shit, M/M, Newt's an elf, Oneshot, WoW/Dragon Age fusion, idfk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2019-07-12 05:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15988736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaddyWack/pseuds/PaddyWack
Summary: “You’ve got to be joking.”The young elf-prince before him blinks, startled by his outburst.“Please tell me you’re joking,” Graves wheezes desperately, casting his glance around in the hopes of spotting the unfortunate souls responsible for this massive fuck-up.They are, of course, nowhere to be found.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of all...I'm sorry. The new WoW expansion came out, there's been a lot of Dragon Age going on, some historical fiction reading, and finally some hoarding of the published WoW series from my local library.
> 
> I just REALLY wanted someone to be an elf. And a grumpy warrior. And fantasy land. Something short and sweet that could possibly turn into more later? IDK.

“You’ve _got_ to be joking.”

 

The young elf-prince before him blinks, startled by his outburst.

 

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Graves wheezes desperately, casting his glance around in the hopes of spotting the unfortunate souls responsible for this massive fuck-up.

 

They are, of course, nowhere to be found.

 

Graves crosses an arm over his stomach and cradles his head in his other hand, dragging it down with a groan to cup his chin and stare at the wide-eyed, trembling elf still standing in front of him. It would be foolish to pretend he doesn’t know who this is. Any criminally young warrior still wet behind the ears would recognize Newton Scamander, chosen heir of the greatest, most powerful mage in existence –

 

And, of course, runner-up as the head of the massive rebel army currently devastating the kingdom’s borders, and therefore at the tip top of every single mercenary's hit list, right under the ringleader himself.

 

“He said you could protect me,” the elf mutters, and neither of them need to clarify exactly which ‘he’ is being referred to here. Dumbledore has ever had the notoriety for such a thing.

 

Graves squeezes his eyes shut with a look of pain. “Of course he did.”

 

“And escort me to the Citadel.”

 

“Naturally.”

 

“In three days.”

 

Graves blinks and raises a single eyebrow. “You do realize we are at least a week out from the Citadel.”

 

Newton’s jaw firms as he lifts his chin. “He said you could do it in three.” Graves stares. “It _must_ be three.”

 

Oh. Well. If it _must_ be – by all means, then. Graves sweeps his arm out grandly toward the expansive forest next to them with an ironic half bow, sarcasm practically dripping from each word as he says, “After you, my lord.”

 

The elf levels him with an inscrutable look, and Graves knows he’s wondering if Dumbledore has made some sort of mistake, because he is wondering the very same himself and thinking he does not get paid nearly enough for these types of missions.

 

“Right, then,” Newton nods jerkily and starts for the trees with a determined stride.

 

Graves follows only a half-step behind, and within moments the pair are engulfed by the thick, unforgiving foliage and the massive amount of fuckery the universe seems to think appropriate for such a quest.

 

*

 

Three days later they stumble up the Citadel’s ridiculous amount of steps in one piece (more or less), and minus one finely dwarven crafted blade (because _someone_ threw it off a goddamned mountain in a fit of pique, which Graves is still miffed about – the sword was _expensive_ , you little wing-eared bastard) and collapse on the marble landing in a heap of sweat, dust, and gods only knows what that blue substance is that has congealed all over Graves’ armor.

 

Likely remnants _a la troll._

They lay gasping, sprawled as if flung carelessly by an ungrateful child’s hand, and Graves thinks he really could really go for a drink or six.

 

A ringing voice cuts that dream short, however, with the sound of quick, clicking steps. “Wonderful, you’ve made it!” They both tip their heads back a fraction as Dumbledore approaches, his eyes twinkling merrily. He claps his hands authoritatively and smiles down at them. “Come along then, we’ve not much time. The spell only works during the solstice, you know, and I don’t believe Grindelwald will ever present us with such a chance again.”

 

As quickly as he appeared, Dumbledore vanishes again, leaving the pair of them to struggle to their feet, pawing at each other for support on kitten-weak legs and staggering limbs.

 

“You know,” Graves mutters, supporting most of their weight and finding that he doesn’t mind nearly as much as he would have three days ago, and probably enjoying it more than he should. “I think I need a vacation.”

 

He feels more than hears his charge laughing, thin shoulders shaking in his grasp as they haul themselves to the top of the magus tower. Graves feels his own lips lifting in an exhausted grin, widening further when a mop of messy ginger hair drops onto his shoulder as Newton huffs, “I think I’ll join you.”

 


	2. Sensibility is for the Sensible.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves is a helpless fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose this is turning into a series now? Excuse the mistakes. This was started over a year ago and finished in five minutes. IDK.

Graves is not one to dwell on the past. He does, however, make a point to _learn_ from the past; a habit that has proved somewhat beneficial in recent years, and of which he draws forcibly from when he suddenly finds himself nose to nose with the largest hippogriff he’s ever had the misfortune to meet.

 

“ _Hngh!_ ” He nearly chokes on his own tongue as he attempts to swallow the mouthful of water he’d just tried to drink, and backpedals with all the grace expected of one who has only just managed to dodge having a behemoth nearly dropped on their head.

 

Instinct has his blade out and raised quickly. The creature stamps its feet in response and chitters in his direction, clearly offended by the blade leveled at its feathered chest.

 

While Graves’ experience with hippogriffs is limited, he has encountered them enough to know that quick strikes coupled with a constant dodging strategy are tantamount to survival. Hesitating could be the difference between keeping all of his limbs intact, or having them munched on as an appetizer.

 

With this in mind, he is just tensing his sword arm and flexing his legs to begin the dance, when a trilling voice stops him in his tracks.

 

“Good morning!”

 

A familiar mop of windblown hair pops out from behind the hippogriff’s impressive neck. Graves blows out a heavy breath and straightens, shoving his sword back into its scabbard as Newt hops off his mount and approaches.

 

“I nearly skewered your chicken,” Graves says once he comes near. The hippogriff glares and swishes its tail in warning.

 

Newt merely graces him with one of those wispy elven smiles. “Frank would never harm you,” he replies, shrugging. “Unless I asked him too, of course.”

 

“Right,” Graves mutters. Unimpressed (and not entirely convinced), he makes a noncommittal sound and crosses his arms.

 

The elven prince looks much improved since their last encounter. There are shadows still evident beneath his eyes, and the hollows of his cheeks have not filled out quite yet, but given his apprenticeship status and the current state of the world, perhaps a few sleepless nights and missed meals shouldn’t be too surprising.

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Graves finally asks, pretending he hadn’t been openly staring at Newt and wondering if offering him dinner would be considered too forward.

 

The elf seems to color at the question. “I heard that you were in the city.”

 

Graves expects more to be said after such an admittedly vague statement, but when nothing is forthcoming, and the silence stretching between them starts to become uncomfortable, he gropes for some sort of response.

 

“Yes, I – uh, have reports.” He coughs. “To report.”

 

Newt nods solemnly. “Of course.”

 

“To your master,” Graves continues, bewildered at the conversation and unsure of how to react. “He was busy this morning so I decided to wait out here for a summons.”

 

“A lovely place to meditate,” Newt replies serenely, nodding again as Graves tries not to twitch.

 

Such peace would probably be true were it not for aggressive turkeys falling from the sky. Nonetheless, Graves hums in agreement and shifts his weight from one booted foot to the other. Newt continues to stare at him with large, unfathomable eyes, that faint smile curling the edges of his lips and making him look a little dreamy.

 

Are all elves this way? Graves shakes his head and raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “My lord?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Was there something you needed from me?”

 

The moon-eyed look disappears as Newt seems to become slightly flustered, breaking from whatever mental reverie he had been stuck in since landing. This time, Graves clearly sees the elf’s pointed ears turn pink, and the flush spreads to his face and throat. Intrigued, he doesn’t realize at first how intense his stare is – not until he finds himself fascinated by the bob of Newt’s throat when he swallows, at which point he thinks perhaps he’s being a little bit too aggressive with the whole eye-fucking thing.

 

He blinks, clears his throat, and drags his eyes away to stare at the grazing hippogriff instead.

 

 “I – “

 

The scream of an abnormally large crow cuts Newt off before he can even begin. They both look up as it swoops down and lands heavily on Graves’ shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. He winces as sharp talons pierce right through his leather jerkin and dig into flesh. What _is_ it with feathery beings falling on him today?

 

A missive is tied to its leg. Graves plucks it free and begins to read as the bird coos and preens when Newt strokes its ebony feathers.

 

“It’s from Dumbledore,” Graves says, skimming the short note. “He’s requesting my presence.”

 

Newt nods. “You should go. It’s rude to keep the magus waiting.”

 

He hesitates, scanning the elf’s carefully schooled expression. The endearing blush is gone, though he still looks a little fidgety under Graves’ scrutiny.

 

“Weren’t you going to tell me something?” he prompts.

 

“It will keep,” Newt smiles slightly, and Graves could be imagining it, but it almost looks a little mischievous now. “I will find you later.”

 

Trying not to read too much into it, Graves nods and shrugs his shoulder to get the crow off. It caws once and takes flight back to the Citadel’s aviary. Newt’s eyes follow its progress, and Graves’ eyes follow the elegant lines of the elf’s profile.

 

He looks quickly away when Newt turns to him again, and dips his head respectfully to the prince. “Until then, my lord.”

 

Newt wrinkles his nose at the title. “Please, I think just my name will suffice after three days of being at each other’s throat, Mister Graves.”

 

He chuckles and bends to retrieve his rucksack as Newt gives a short whistle for his mount. “Fair enough. Though I do recall only one of us truly losing their tempers.”

 

“Yes, well,” Newt stammers, effortlessly swinging himself up onto the hippogriff’s back, and Graves silently marvels that he chooses to ride without a saddle. He’s fairly certain not even Dumbledore can manage such a feat. “Good day.”

 

He watches as the hippogriff canters forward and leaps gracefully into the air. Rather than fly toward the Tower, as Graves expects him to, Newt veers toward the city proper and disappears behind the reaching spires and inner defense walls. Smirking to himself, he heads to the Citadel and Dumbledore’s presence chambers.

 

*

 

Lightheartedness (and certain devastatingly attractive elven nobility) aside, Graves is brutally efficient at his job. As a knight, he is admired for his martial prowess and unquestionable honor on the battlefield; as Champion, and considered Dumbledore’s unfailing right hand, Graves is equal parts respected for the man he is as he is feared for the reckoning force capable of complete and utter destruction he can become.

 

There are heroes of myth, there are legends of greatness, and then there is Percival Graves. Long after he has left this world, they will still be screaming out his name as a battle cry for war.  

 

And so it is with quiet attentiveness that Dumbledore listens to his reports, and afterwards discuss important stratagem. The warlocks are mobilizing in ever greater numbers, headed by Grindelwald’s Circle, and newly supported by the orcs. Graves has it on good authority that some sort of treaty has been passed between the two. The orcs will lend their crushing offense to Grindelwald in exchange for something of equal value – of which Graves can only guess, considering his messenger was sent back in pieces before that bit of information could be passed along.

 

Of course, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. More than likely Grindelwald has promised the orcs power, and will renege on that oath as soon as the vicious creatures have served their purpose. Were they not his enemy, and had they not committed such atrocities against his own people in the past, Graves would almost feel sorry for the orcs. They possess a rich and colorful culture, but a dark history full of betrayal. They are incapable of realizing that Grindelwald is about to add to that tally.

 

Dumbledore stares thoughtfully out onto the courtyard once their meeting is complete. Graves finishes rolling up his maps and packing away various missives. “He was quite different in the beginning, you know. Always a fanatic, mind, but never so heartless,” Dumbledore says quietly.

 

Graves chews the inside of his cheek and glances at the mage from the corner of his eye. “People change. Sometimes it’s not always for the better.”

 

“Indeed not.” Dumbledore sighs heavily. “Who would have thought that a young boy frightened of toads would one day kill his own father for the throne, and plunge the world into civil war?”

 

“We won’t let him win,” Graves says firmly, catching and holding Dumbledore’s gaze. “I swear it.”

 

The mage smiles, and Graves is a little unnerved to find it so similar to the one Newt wore earlier this morning. “I have no doubt you will hold back the tide with your own bare hands, should it come to that. In any case, you have your orders. You may go now.”

 

“My lord,” he starts, only to stop himself and frown at the window, contemplative. He senses Dumbledore waiting patiently for him to continue, and after a moment he tries again. “My lord. I don’t mean to offend, but you knew Grindelwald best.” He pauses and corrects himself. “ _Know_ him best. He was well-loved by the kingdom as its heir, and quite popular with the lower classes. He seemed actively engaged with his people while his father was king. So…how? How did any of this happen?”

 

Dumbledore dips his chin toward his chest. “I’ve often asked myself the same, Percival. Wondered if perhaps I could have done more. Paid closer attention, and not allow myself to become distracted as we grew older. He was always such a precocious child. I let myself become deaf and blind, overlooking his temper, his selfishness.” He faces Graves with a self-deprecating chuckle. “In truth, I think his current state is my fault entirely. You see, I was responsible for him. I allowed him to become what he is.”

 

It’s on the tip of his tongue to disagree, to point out that every man chooses his own path and that Grindelwald, for whatever reasons, had chosen this one for himself.

 

“I was too close,” Dumbledore says quietly, effectively silencing whatever Graves had intended to say. “Too…distracted, as I said. I let myself become charmed like all the rest. He made us all fools.”

 

“He is a master manipulator.” The defense falls flat between them, but Graves means it – he had been part of the household guard before the betrayal, close to the royal family. He had witnessed Grindelwald reach maturity and seen the destruction the man had wrought seemingly overnight. The monster had hoodwinked the entire kingdom.

 

Dumbledore nods, and Graves is surprised to see a wounded look become visible for a brief moment before disappearing behind a dimpling, patient smile. “True. He does possess such an unfortunate quality. But we are aware of his behavior now, and with you leading our armies we will not be burned a second time.” Graves nods firmly in agreement. “That being said, we do have a bit of a respite before we need to make our next move. You should rest, enjoy a hot meal. I hear The Dancing Lion has hired entertainment for the soldiers.”

 

“Of course,” Graves says, recognizing the dismissal and fighting the urge to question the mage further. He finishes packing his things away and bows respectfully. As he turns to go, Dumbledore calls out once more.

 

“Oh, and when you see my apprentice, will you please inform him that while I respect his endeavors toward local wildlife preservation, I would prefer it if he would kindly keep the badgers out of my sock drawer.” He looks at his Champion almost imploringly. “The floors here are terribly cold in the evening, and the creatures have nearly unraveled all of my woolen pairs.”

 

“I...will let him know, my lord.”

 

“Wonderful. Enjoy your evening, Percival.”

 

He leaves shaking his head at Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes, not even bothering to ask how he knows Graves plans to see the young elven mage. Mostly because he fears the response, since over the years Dumbledore has always had the uncanny ability to just _know_ things. Better to leave it be.

 

He makes his way through the Citadel and down the steps into the city.

 

*

 

The tavern is crowded. He has to push his way to a back corner and takes a seat at a table that’s still littered with the remnants of someone’s dinner. He shoves the mug and crumby plate to the side, ordering his meal from the barmaid as she swings by on her way back to the kitchen.

 

Most of the patrons are soldiers, though there are a fair bit of civilians in the mix as well. The overall mood of the place is quite genial, which comes as somewhat of a surprise, all things considered. Give a man copious jugs of ale, and not even war can dampen his good cheer, apparently.

 

Graves sighs and runs a hand through his hair with a grimace. A trip to the bathhouse is in order, he thinks. That, and a bed that isn’t a lumpy roll on the forest floor ridden with bugs. After spending the last week camping in the valley dealing with mild troll skirmishes and attempting to reinforce defenses against spellcasters, a musty mattress on a rope frame sounds almost like heaven.

 

He doesn’t have to wait long before a plate of blood sausages, boiled potatoes, and cabbage is put in front of him with a mug of water. The barmaid lingers for a moment, and Graves gets the distinct impression that she is trying to decide if he’s a common soldier or one of the townfolk. He had forgone his armor or any distinctive clothing precisely for this purpose; so that he could blend in and not draw too much attention.

 

A fair bit of the population harbors resentment when it comes to housing Dumbledore’s “rebels”. Granted, they are equally unhappy if members of the gentry or Grindelwald’s own royal armies pass through, perhaps moreso, but it all boils down to having to exhaust dwindling supplies on strangers rather than their own community.

 

Graves can sympathize with that, can even agree that it’s unfair, but it’s also necessary and he has to feed his soldiers. A starving army could be crushed in a fortnight.

 

He tips his mug in thanks and takes a swallow, aware that his stony silence is giving him away as an interloper. The girl (for she looks young with her dark hair cropped so short just beneath her ears – and were it not for her dress, he would easily mistake her for a lad of sixteen) narrows her eyes and bites her lip. Holding herself back from insulting him, most likely. With a stiff nod, she turns and resumes her work with the other patrons.

 

Graves sighs and cuts into the sausages, quietly enjoying his meal but keeping alert of the others in the room. The men are all foot soldiers, likely from the vanguard, and don’t immediately recognize their commander on sight. He takes pride in the fact that, while comfortable and obviously in their cups, his men are respectful of the tavern keeper and keep their jolly mood relegated to themselves rather than making a row of the place.

 

As the evening darkens, a different young maid comes from the back to light the lamps and candles throughout the room. Unlike the one who had brought out his meal, this one is blonde and wispy-looking. As she reaches his table and lights the fat tallow candle in the center, she fixes Graves with luminous eyes and a gentle smile.

 

“We have a bit of bread left in the larder. Would you like some with your meal, hon?”

 

He blinks, taken off-guard by the sweet tone. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

 

Her laugh is as quiet as a whisper, and tinkles against his ears like little bells. “You’re not taking it from anyone’s mouth, you know. We’ve got plenty to go around.” She straightens and calls for someone named Jacob. A portly man pops his head from behind a door with a besotted grin. “Put on a fresh loaf, will you, sweetheart?” She turns back to Graves as the man, Jacob, disappears behind the door again. She smiles wider and touches his arm with the tips of her fingers. “Don’t worry. You’re welcome here. You and your men are always welcome here.”

 

She turns without another word and wades into the growing crowd. Feeling eyes on him, Graves flicks his gaze across the room and catches the other barmaid’s dark, narrowed gaze. Caught, she flushes and quickly turns her back to him, busying herself with polishing tankards.

 

Tolerated, perhaps, but not exactly welcome.

 

He drains the mug of water and resumes eating. The small loaf of bread is brought out in due time with another reassuring smile from the maid, and Graves is largely left alone after that. He chews thoughtfully, sopping up juices from the sausages with chunks of bread, and lets his mind wander, inevitably circling back to a certain eleven prince.

 

He reflexively smiles into his plate. It’s a small thing, barely noticeable, and yet it’s there and he feels foolish. He can admit that he finds the mage interesting. Attractive, even. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t – and what an obvious lie it would be, since the entire eleven race is considered a source of unequivocal beauty by all humans. 

 

What disturbs him is the sense of unsteadiness in his limbs he feels in Newt’s presence. As if a rug is threatening to be ripped out from under his feet and send him crashing to the floor. It had started during their “excursion” (for lack of a better word), and has persisted ever since. He’s not naïve, he understands he’s infatuated with the mage. The issue stems from Newt being part of the nobility, and, of course, mostly the sense of unease that comes from Newt’s magical inclinations.

 

Though Graves has served and fought beside mages for years – indeed, Dumbledore’s forces are largely supported by magic-users – and though he believes himself rather unprejudiced when it comes to the group as a whole, there still remains a feeling of acute disquiet when around beings who can control the very air that enters his lungs.

 

_Especially_ when he finds himself wanting to pin one of said beings to a wall and ravish them beyond all recognition.

 

“Good evening, Mister Graves.”

 

Graves prides himself on the fact that he does not desperately choke – for the second time that day – on the bit of bread that suddenly lodges itself in his throat at the interruption. Rather, he swallows (with incredible difficulty) and clenches his jaw to prevent the hacking that batters at his lungs.

 

When he does manage to glance up, composed and albeit stoic, Newt is standing before him and very obviously fighting back an amused grin. He takes a seat across from Graves and flicks his fingers absently, murmuring a spell.

 

“I apologize for interrupting your meal,” he says as the water cup between them fills to the brim. Graves accepts it with a grateful word of thanks.

 

“I was finished anyway,” Graves replies when he can finally manage to speak clearly. “Can I order you anything?”

 

Newt shakes his head and props a large package against their table. Though it is wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine, the distinct shape gives it away as a sword. A two-handed one, judging by the size.

 

“Have you taken up a new skill?” Graves asks, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. Trying to imagine the lean, borderline gangly, elf hefting such a large weapon is so comical that he has to bite the inside of his cheek to maintain composure.

 

Newt chuckles. “No, fortunately I was never adept with such a thing. It’s for you.” He pushes the upright package toward Graves, letting go only when Graves takes it in hand. “I would have given it to you sooner, but the blacksmith wasn’t quite finished with the repairs.”

 

At a loss for words, Graves carefully places the covered blade on the table and unwraps the stiff paper. The sword is of dwarven make and inscribed with the motto of his house. Though a dead language, the words glow a soft green and hum at the touch of his fingers. Originally infused with magic passed down through Graves’ ancestors, it only becomes responsive to those of his own bloodline.

 

Graves blinks. “How…?”

 

The sword had been lost – well, _thrown_ , and then lost, between Capital City and the outlying towns. He hadn’t held it against Newt, hadn’t even expected the elf to reimburse or replace it after having been the one to fling it from the mountain during a heated argument. Graves has enough self-awareness to admit he’d pushed the mage too far in the first place.  

 

Newt fidgets in his seat, looking sheepish. “A recovery spell. I’m sorry it took so long to retrieve it. Dumbledore has wished for me to stay close, and without an armed escort I couldn’t retrace our steps through troll territory. I’ve never performed the spell over such a long distance before. It took time.”

 

Impressed, and not a little surprised, Graves grips the hilt and feels the familiar warmth of the enchanted blade responding to his touch. “I didn’t expect to ever see it again. I had thought by now those beasts had found it and had their orc friends melt it down for spear tips.”

 

“I believe they tried.” Newt winces and looks even more apologetic. “It was in rough shape by the time I could finally get my hands on it. The city’s blacksmith is a dwarf. He was quite offended when I commissioned his aid in repairing it. It’s taken him over a week to restore.”

 

“I don’t even know what to say,” Graves says eventually, staring at Newt. “I can’t tell you how important this weapon is to my family. They weren’t very happy to hear I’d allowed it to be snatched from my very hands,” he adds teasingly, delighting in the flush that rapidly spreads over Newt’s cheeks. “Though they will be happy to see it returned.”

 

Newt clears his throat and rubs the bridge of his nose, as if trying to erase the redness. “Yes, well. Extend to them my sincerest apologies for the trouble.”

 

Graves chuckles and rewraps the sword. He’ll have to carry it as is until he can have a moment to switch sheaths. The current one he’s sporting on his belt would be too small, and is occupied by a thinner blade, anyway.

 

“Is that why you wanted to see me?” he asks when the blade is safely wrapped and propped back against the table. “To return my sword?”

 

“In part,” Newt admits, looking even hotter beneath the collar. “It was the main reason, of course.”

 

Sensing the elf’s unease and feeling a thrill down his spine in response, Graves straightens slightly in his seat and fixes Newt with a calculating eye. “And the other reason?”

 

There’s a moment where it looks as if he will not respond, or perhaps implode on the spot. Graves isn’t sure which of the two is more likely at this point. But then he seems to deflate, slumping back into his seat and returning Graves’ calculating look with a self-deprecating one.

 

“In truth, I just wanted to see you.”

 

Graves blinks, surprised.

 

“I’m sorry,” Newt says quickly. “I meant – that is, you are the one to speak to about battle plans, correct? I had hoped to…um…offer what services I can, seeing as…Dumbledore – being busy, of course. And. Well.”

 

The mage looks at him helplessly, seemingly lost for words, and Graves tries not to appear too befuddled. “You want to discuss strategy?” he ventures.

 

Newt squeezes his eyes shut and nods stiffly in the affirmative. Graves rubs a hand over his mouth to cover a growing smirk, unable to conceal completely the pleased look he gets when Newt is finally able to meet his eye again. The elf returns the look, tight-lipped.

 

Neither are fooled by the pretense of discussing work – Newt’s emotions are writ clearly all over his face, and for that Graves is truly grateful. And more than a little flattered. To find that the prince himself is experiencing much the same discomfort and infatuation Graves has had to endure is more than a little reassuring.

 

Not to mention scarcely believable. To think a magic-wielding noble elf could be reduced to blushing and stammering in the presence of a common human soldier. The world truly has been flipped on its head.

 

Graves breaks the silence. “I’d be happy to hear your input on such things,” he says carefully. “Maybe over by the hearth where it’s quieter.” He gestures toward the back of the room where two fat chairs are placed intimately close before an inviting fire.

 

Newt follows the direction of his hand and softens at the picture. A gentle smile works its way onto his lips. “That would be lovely.”

 

As they move to stand, the sweet-speaking barmaid reappears with two plates, one in each hand sporting a slice of delicious looking pie still warm from the oven. She smiles.

 

“Tina remembered how much you like our lemon meringue, Newt.”

 

“Thank you, Queenie,” Newt murmurs as he takes the desserts. He shoots Graves a shy glance as the maid giggles and twirls back to the few remaining patrons. “My friends,” he explains. “I spend much of my free time here in the evenings.”

 

“They support the rebels?”

 

Newt chuckles and leads Graves toward the warmth hearth. “Oh, yes. They are sisters. They run this place together as a safe haven for the soldiers.”

 

“I find that hard to believe,” Graves says dryly, nodding pointedly in the direction of who he presumes is Tina, the dark-haired maid who had been giving him the evil eye since he came in. She visibly sniffs and turns a cold shoulder.

 

Newt, having caught the exchange, chuckles and takes a seat. He sets the plates on a little table between the chairs. “I wouldn’t let yourself feel too concerned. Tina is just being protective.” He coughs, appearing suddenly bashful. “I may have talked about you on occasion while visiting.”

 

Graves settles into the cushions of his own chair. “Me?”

 

“Yes,” Newt replies quietly, avoiding Graves searching gaze. “I have been hoping for a moment of your time for a while now.”

 

“To discuss strategy,” Graves teases, amused by his own sense of pleasure at the admission.

 

Newt chuckles and glances up from beneath his fringe of ridiculous hair. “Yes. Precisely.”

 

Despite the yawning difference in social status, the war hanging above their heads, and every other major threat currently knocking on their door, Graves finds himself eagerly looking forward to more of these “moments” and what they have to offer.


End file.
